PARTIAL FAME.

THE sturdy man, if he in love obtains,
In open pomp and triumph reigns:

The subtile woman, if she should succeed,
Disowns the honour of the deed.

Though he, for all his boast, is forc'd to yield,
Though she can always keep the field :

He vaunts his conquest, she conceals her shame ;
How partial is the voice of Fame!

TO CLOE.

WHILST I am scorch'd with hot desire,

In vain cold friendship you return; Your drops of pity on my fire,

Alas! but make it fiercer burn.

Ah! would you have the flame supprest,
That kills the heart it heats too fast,
Take half my passion to your breast;
The rest in mine shall ever last.

TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE

THE COUNTESS DOWAGER OF DEVONSHIRE,

ON A PIECE OF WIESSEN'S WHEREON WERE

ALL HER GRANDSONS PAINTED.

WIESSEN and Nature held a long contest,
If she created, or he painted best;

With pleasing thought the wondrous combat grew,
She, still form'd fairer; he, still liker drew.
In these seven brethren, they contended last,
With art increas'd, their utmost skill they tried,
And, both well pleas'd they had themselves surpass'd,
The goddess triumph'd, and the painter died.
That both, their skill to this vast height did raise,
Be ours the wonder, and be yours the praise:
For here, as in some glass, is well descried

William Wiessen, an eminent portrait painter, born at the Hague in 1656. He learned the art of painting from Dodoens, and after some time spent with him, visited England, and improved himself under Sir Peter Lely, whose manner he imitated with success. "He had the honour," says Mr. Pilkington, " to be competitor with Sir Godfrey Kneller, though the superiority was allowed to the latter, on account of that dignity and air which Kneller generally gave to his portraits; however, the real merit of Wiessen as an artist, as also the politeness of his manners, secured to him the esteem of the great, and provided him employment as long as he lived." Dictionary of Painters, 4to, 1770, p. 695. He died 1687.

Only yourself thus often multiplied.

When Heaven had you and gracious Anna* made,
What more exalted beauty could it add?
Having no nobler images in store,

It but kept up to these, nor could do more
Than copy Iwell what it had fram'd before.
If in dear Burghley's generous face we see
Obliging truth and handsome honesty:

With all that world of charms, which soon will move
Reverence in men, and in the fair ones love:
His every grace, his fair descent assures,
He has his mother's beauty, she has yours:
If every Cecil's face had every charm,

That thought can fancy, or that Heaven can form;
Their beauties all become your beauty's due,
They are all fair, because they're all like you.
If every Ca'ndish great and charming look;

From

you that air, from you the charms they took. In their each limb your image is exprest; But on their brow firm courage stands confest; There, their great father, by a strong increase, Adds strength to beauty, and completes the piece: Thus still your beauty, in your sons, we view, Wiessen seven times one great perfection drew; Whoever sat, the picture still is you.

So when the parent sun, with genial beams, Has animated many goodly gems,

He sees himself improv'd, while every stone,

* Eldest daughter of the countess.

With a resembling light, reflects a sun.

So when great Rhea many births had given, Such as might govern earth, and people Heaven; Her glory grew diffus'd, and fuller known, She saw the deity in every son:

And to what God soe'er men altars rais'd,

Honouring the offspring, they the mother prais'd.

In short-liv'd charms let others place their joys, Which sickness blasts, and certain age destroys: Your stronger beauty time can ne'er deface, 'Tis still renew'd, and stamp'd in all your race.

Ah! Wiessen, had thy art been so refin'd,
As with their beauty to have drawn their mind:
Through circling years thy labours would survive,
And living rules to fairest virtue give,
To men unborn and ages yet to live:

'Twould still be wonderful, and still be new,
Against what time, or spite, or fate, could do;
Till thine confus'd with Nature's pieces lie,
And Cavendish's name and Cecil's honour die.

A FABLE FROM PHÆDRUS.

TO THE AUTHOR of the MEDLEY,* 1710.

THE fox an actor's vizard found,

And peer'd, and felt, and turn'd it round:

* A periodical paper by Oldmixon, Maynwaring, and others, set up in opposition to the Examiner.

Then threw it in contempt away,

And thus old Phædrus heard him say: "What noble part canst thou sustain, Thou specious head without a brain ?"

ON MY BIRTHDAY, JULY 21.

I, My dear, was born to-day,

So all my jolly comrades say;

They bring me music, wreaths, and mirth,
And ask to celebrate my birth:
Little, alas! my comrades know,
That I was born to pain and woe;
To thy denial, to thy scorn;
Better I had ne'er been born:
I wish to die e'en whilst I say,
I, my dear, was born to-day.

I, my dear, was born to-day,
Shall I salute the rising ray?
Well-spring of all my joy and woe,
Clotilda,* thou alone dost know:
Shall the wreath surround my hair?
Or shall the music please my ear?
Shall I my comrades' mirth receive,
And bless my birth, and wish to live?

* Mrs. Anne Durham.